


Hello, Baby

by tinymarvels (Captain_of_the_sass)



Category: Hotel Artemis (2018)
Genre: Dubious Consent, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Threats of Violence, kind of but pulco gets into it, lots of swearing, this started with my weird kink for the idea of Orian shaving Acapulco's stupid face
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 21:58:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20316655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_of_the_sass/pseuds/tinymarvels
Summary: A little mouse has been wandering too close to the wolf's den.Acapulco's gone and gotten himself noticed.





	Hello, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title: Niagara, rhymes with Viagra 
> 
> This started with the idea in my head of the Wolf King tying Acapulco up and giving him a close shave. It's my first ever attempt at writing any kind of smut so forgive me

When some snot-nosed lackey finally yanks the blindfold off and the gag out of his mouth Acapulco's pretty damned tempted to bite him. But, see, the problem there is that One; who knows where those nasty hands have been. And Two; he's duct-taped. To a fucking _chair_. And Hell no he's not gonna snap his neck around trying to get at some brat. He has a little more class than that, thank you very much. Plus, his mouth is better suited for other things.

...Like drinking expensive booze. Or ordering a $300 steak. And cussing. A lot of it. The first thing Acapulco does as soon as he can open is mouth is swear up a storm.

"About fucking time, you piece of shit," he spits, "Your big 'ol boss gonna come out and give whatever shitty threat he has up his sleeve sometime today, or you expect me to just keep sitting here looking pretty?"

The kid doesn't even spare him a glance, taking up some cheesy parade rest position against the wall like he's a professional and not some amateur Acapulco wouldn't even bother to wipe his own ass with. It's fancy in here; looks like the kinda room he might take some expensive company up to for the night. But something tells him that he's not here for pleasure.

"Hey! I'm talking to you, you little twerp, I've been sitting here all day; you expect me to-"

The door opens. A figure steps inside. Acapulco's lips freeze for once.

Up close and in person the Wolf King doesn't appear particularly threatening. Tall. Dressed like somebody's wealthy country club grandpa. Acapulco knows better than anyone that looks can be deceiving, though, and he's pretty certain he's gotten himself into some _shit_ now.

"Oh, the _mouth_ on you," Wolf King drawls, circling around like some fucked up Discovery Channel predator. He's got a real name. Something to do with astronomer crap. Taurus. Rebus. Little Dipper. No, it's Orian. Spelled for shit, but yeah. Acapulco has a real name too, obviously, but it's fucking _Manfred_ because somebody was a jackass that wanted him to grow up being the butt of every joke ever.

He has a wave of nasty words ready to bust out, but in the interest of keeping his tongue Acapulco tries to be calm. As much as possible for him, anyway.

"You could have just called." He hisses, "Wrote a letter. Put out some fucking smoke signals."

Orian (Wolfie? Grandad?) lets a slow smile spread over his face. He's staring at Acapulco like he's some brand-new toy just taken out of the box, and it's disturbing as fuck.

"Mm," the man drawls, "Those ideas aren't too bad. But, you know, I prefer something with a little more _pizzazz_." he says the final word with a drawn-out flare, and in one smooth motion he sweeps a leg over to one side and sits his ass down right in Acapulco's lap. The arms dealer jerks in protest, pulling at his bonds with a snarl.

"Oh, you _are_ feisty. I like that. When they scream and they beg, it's. It's kind of sad, y'know. Nobody faces their punishment with dignity. Nobody wants to accept responsibility for their actions. But _you_! You wear all your crimes and your dirt right on your face like a badge of honor." long fingers trail over the scars marring Acapulco's eye, running down until they brush his moustache. The Wolf King drags a fingertip across the smooth line of hair there, ignoring the way it makes Acapulco bare his teeth.

Seemingly satisfied, Orian leans back a little, expression oddly considering as he lets out a small hum. The way he’s staring at Acapulco's facial hair makes the man bristle and he’s just getting ready to cuss him out when the Wolf King suddenly snaps his fingers. That little brat against the wall comes to attention, approaching with several long strides and leaning down to allow his boss to speak to him.

"Bring me the black case from the washroom. Water. Towel. You know how I like it." Orian says, eyes not leaving the man tied down beneath him for even a second. The kid disappears like he'd been shot out of a canon, presumably to get water and whatever mysterious black case.

"Are you going to _waterboard_ me, you _fucker_?" Acapulco screeches, uselessly trying in vain to kick his legs, "I never did jack shit to you!" Orian stands back up, annoyingly graceful.

"Nobody's waterboarding anybody," the man answers, seemingly scandalized by the idea, "Sheesh, with the_ language_. Didn't your mother ever teach you any manners?"

Acapulco grins, jagged and sharp at the edges. "My mother was a prostitute that gave birth to me in a rest stop and tried to drown me in the bathroom sink," he spat, hoping to get some sick sense of satisfaction from the other man's reaction, "Only thing she taught me was that you can't count on anybody but yourself."

But much to Acapulco's frustration the wolf only tutted and shook his head.

"Guess it's up to me, then." to drive the point home Orian shrugged his way out of his pale blue cardigan, then delicately rolled up the sleeves of his cream-colored turtleneck.

"Do you know why you're here?" the man says with something almost like disinterest, "Honestly, before my whole...untimely demise," he waves a hand vaguely as he spoke the words, "I never had much interest in you. Of course, nothing in this city escapes my notice. You built yourself up quit a business and I respect that. You seemed to cause a little trouble here and there but nothing made it far enough up the ladder for me to intervene. But now? Oh, my friend." Orian smiles with what Acapulco’s certain is fake benevolence, "A near-death experience seems to have made you bold."

Orian looms over him and for a split-second Acapulco swears he can see his own death reflected in the Wolf King's eyes.

A knock at the door interrupts them. Orian's shrimpboy lackey is back, setting up a small tray table close enough that Acapulco could hit it with his knee if he tries. The kid disappears again for just a minute then returns holding a glass bowl full of steaming water in his hands, a black case tucked under his arm. There is a small black hand towel floating in the bowl. Orian watches the boy carefully set both the water and the case on the table with laser-focus, like he’s critiquing his performance or something.

"Thank you," the Wolf King finally says. It’s a clear dismissal and with a nod the little kiss-ass vanishes again. Acapulco's earlier bravado is drying up quicky. He’s already died once, okay? It was horrible and awful and he would hate to repeat it.

"Look," He chokes, watching with dread as Orian begins unlatching the mystery case, "If this is about money, we can work something out, okay? I can cut a deal. This is your territory, right, and you're mad. I get it," he visibly flinches when the case clicks open, "How about this, H- how about a deal for 80/20. You get 20% of my hard-earned profits. It's a fucking steal, right? _Oh Jesus Christ_."

The Wolf King has removed a sizable blade from the case, a strange old-timey looking thing that has a hinge between the blade and the slim handle. It’s a razor, one of the ancient old-as-balls ones that people used to rely on way back when.

"Relax," Orian says, "I'm not going to slit your throat with it." he sets the razor aside and next pulls out a tiny palm-sized bowl, a rounded brush, and a tube of-

"Are you fucking _serious_?" Acapulco snaps, "Is this a joke? Are you about to shave my face to death?" His voice goes high and screechy, a manic grin sliding its way across his lips at the absurdity of it. The Wolf King pays no mind, wringing out the hot towel until it’s no longer dripping. When he’s satisfied the man breezes his way back to Acapulco's side, making a point of draping the towel over his shoulder and grabbing the razor. Quick as a snake one large hand snaps out, long slender fingers grabbing Acapulco's hair in an iron grip. Using the hair as a handle Orian yanks Acapulco's head back.

"Are you going to be good for me," he whispers in Acapulco’s ear, "Or are we going to have to get messy?"

"You're not shaving my fucking moustache," Acapulco hissed.

"It's the moustache," the King answers, unbothered, "Or the other eye." he brings the razor blade up, trailing it dangerously along Acapulco's cheek, close enough to his good eye that the arms dealer swallows involuntarily. The threat is clear as day, and it has Acapulco backing down for now. He hates letting anyone get the upper hand, hates the way just the smell of the Wolf King's cologne is starting to make his heartrate skyrocket, like some fucked up Pavlovian response. One long slender finger teased its way along the blunt spine of the razor before Orian abruptly pulls back, neatly folding the blade into the handle. It makes only a faint sound as he set it on the tray table.

Acapulco lifts his lip into a snarl but doesn't otherwise resist as Orian plucks the hot towel off his shoulder and carefully wraps it around the arms dealer's face, leaving only his nose peeking out. Internally Acapulco was coming up with a million very painful, very _imaginative_ ways the kill the king of the underworld. He’d start by slicing up that stupid smile. Slowly the warmth of the towel sinks into his skin, seeping into his bones, but Acapulco refused to relax. His blood pressure is probably through the roof. Being the biggest dealer in the city, he's a busy guy. Fuck it, he's probably the biggest arms dealer in the whole US-of frickin-A. He's got shit to do, okay? Namely being literally anywhere else but here.

He keeps his eyes shut; they’re useless all bundled up anyway. Everything is disturbingly dark and with every small sound the tension in Acapulco's muscles ratchets higher. Finally, the towel is gently unwrapped. Orian drops it onto the tray and trades it for a thin black tube.

"It's shave oil," he informs offhandedly, applying the warm slickness to the skin around Acapulco's moustache, "Softens the hair and helps protect the skin. Smells nice, too. The classic shave, you know, it's going out of style these days. Everybody's all about convenience. They want something done, they want it done quick. But some things-" he draws his oil-slick fingertip along the bottom line of Acapulco's moustache, grazing along his lip, "-some things are better when you take your time." the tube snaps shut with an audible click and the Wolf King swaps it out for the small rounded brush and palm-sized bowl. He’s evidently stirred up a dollop of shaving cream while Acapulco’s face was wrapped; both the brush and the bowl are adorned with a frothy white foam.

"Is this what you do to all your prisoners?" Acapulco sneers, "talk them into submission?"

Orian spins the brush in the shaving cream one last time, appraising Acapulco with something like scientific interest.

"No," he answers after a brief pause, "For some reason, you seem to be a special case." he leans close and begins swirling the brush over the stubble that lines Acapulco's cheeks.

"Normally, with an attitude like yours I would have already cut out your tongue." He says the words so casually yet so certain, like it's a given fact. Like he's talking about the fucking weather and letting Acapulco know that _ah yes, it's raining_. Well, he's done being a little pussy about it. Acapulco's fucking mad.

"Pardon my lack of appreciation," he grouches, positively glowering.

Orian laughs, like Acapulco was the most entertaining thing he had ever come across. The swirling motions have become little strokes and dabs as he thoroughly coats the thick line of hair under Acapulco's nose.

"Tilt your head back," the man commands once he's finished, and Acapulco holds out for a moment just to be a little shit. Orian's eyebrow twitches.

"I feel like I should warn you," the Wolf King says, flat and cold, "Even for you my patience has its limits."

Acapulco tilts his head back. Like this his neck is stretched out, laid bare for the Wolf King to do as he pleases. The straight razor makes another grand appearance. It starts close to Acapulco's ear- a gentle but purposeful repetitive motion that works its way downward. He can hear the scratch of it against the light sprinkling of five'o'clock shadow he'd been too lazy to clean up the past few days, the blade smoothly stripping away both the hair and the shaving cream. Wherever it goes it leaves behind a naked patch of tingling skin. It's intimate, and god but he feels so vulnerable, all trussed up and able to do nothing but take it.

"Do you know the first time I saw you?" Orian asks, wiping the mess from the blade onto the towel and starting again. Acapulco doesn't answer, because the blade is currently pressing against his throat as it shuffles its way down his neck, clearing the whiskers there. He feels like a dog who's rolled over to show its belly, completely submissive, and it makes him want to puke. What's worse is the bizarre way his body seems to be responding to the close proximity, and maybe even the danger of it all. Acapulco can feel a warmth building in his core and a little tingle in some pretty fucking private places. Apparently, he's hot for near-death experiences. Who'd have thought, after the whole _actually dying_ thing not too long ago.

Orian continues unperturbed by his audience's silence. "You were yelling at a man who was trying to lowball you for a shipment. A man nearly twice your size, and you were _fearless_. You threw a fit right in the gentleman's face," Orian chuckled, "I could tell you were so full of yourself, and yet somehow...breathtaking. I suppose you could say I was smitten."

A smile spreads over those lips and Acapulco got the distinct feeling he was being stared down by a predator again. A _wolf_. The rhythmic _scrape scrape scrape _of the razor was constant.

"You're a psychopath." Acapulco accuses.

Orian's eyes flick down to the hardly discreet bulge in Acapulco's tight-as-fuck black pants and he grins even wider.

"Seems you're in good company, then." the Wolf King says. He uses one hand to grip the back of Acapulco's chair and, slowly and languidly, lifts one knee into Acapulco's lap as he leans over him.

"You crazy fucker," Acapulco breathes, half in amazement and half in disgust. The Wolf King's knee slides back teasingly then presses forward again, weighing against Acapulco's dick more firmly. It’s kinda painful but shit if it isn’t somehow doing something for Acapulco. Orian starts in on the moustache now that Acapulco's stubble is gone and his traitorous cock throbs with every drag of the blade down his skin. It’s getting harder and harder to keep his head tilted back, his neck and dick seeming to ache in tandem.

The pressure eased. Orian sets the razor aside, picks up the towel, and uses a clean corner to gently dab away any leftover foam on Acapulco's face. The man leans back to admire his work and-

"Fucking _fuck_," Acapulco snarls, jerking in his bonds as Orian slides a hand down to cup him through his pants. Is he fucking high right now? Is that what this is? Clearly, he must be hallucinating but oh, _motherfucker_, no way is he imagining the way that hand starts rubbing against him.

"Is this part of your usual guest experience or is this another one of your special cases." Acapulco grounds out.

"You're just so cute," the Wolf King answers, leaning in to whisper the words with a nip to Acapulco's ear, "All wrapped up like a present."

And obviously Acapulco was right- this guy is out of his goddamn mind. He is not _cute_, he will never _be_ cute. Acapulco is a monster, proudly so, raking in cash from the slimiest corners of society and using it to climb his way up from the dirt. He could feel his face boiling with a caustic mixture of indignation and anticipation. Nimble fingers pop the button on his pants and drag the zipper down, and Acapulco hisses as a warm hand slips into his silk underwear to wrap around his length.

"Silk? That certainly suits you." the old man looked far too amused.

"Fuck you," Acapulco spits, but his voice is strained, shaky breaths coming in faster and faster. Talented fingers play with the head of his leaking cock, spreading Acapulco's pre-come around until he’s sloppy with it. The added slickness isn't enough to stop the faint sting as Orian takes him in hand and lazily strokes. Acapulco grits his teeth. If this is a fight then he’s losing; losing to an old man. With a surge of adrenaline he jerks his head forward and mashes their lips together in a graceless clash of too much teeth. It melts into something different almost immediately, though. Something fierce and dirty. Orian still holds Acapulco's cock loosely in one hand while the other tugs his hair in a way that only spurs Acapulco on. When the Wolf King's tongue down his throat gets a little too annoying Acapulco ends the game with a punishing show of teeth.

Orian pulls back with satisfyingly wide eyes, but the surprise is replaced by a devilish grin as the man runs his tongue along his bottom lip. Acapulco thinks it looks a little reddened from his bite, but it might have been wishful thinking. The guy has some finesse for an old grandpa, Acapulco gives him that. But like hell is he gonna keep rolling over. That hand starts stroking again and this time Acapulco lets himself enjoy it, because he can see the obvious tent in the Wolf's King's ugly-ass tailored khakis. They’re back on even ground. Or at least as even as they could get with one of them duct-taped to a chair. Acapulco’s hips try to buck up in vain. He bites his lip and throws his head back in bliss, then the arms dealer laughed, manically, drunk off the absolute bizarreness of the situation. Orian squeezes the hand around his dick to bring him back down to Earth and Acapulco cursed at the pain, wild smile faltering.

"Oh shit, oh fuck," _Yes_. That little twist at the end of every stroke, that tight hot pressure, that mix of pleasure and stinging pain. Orian's hand speeds up and Acapulco is gone, muscles tensing and fluttering as he comes. When he slides down from his post-orgasm high he’s annoyed to find the Wolf King looking far too pleased with himself. Acapulco has never had much of a thing for other men. He likes boobs, okay? Likes long hair and plush lips and an A+ ass. But when it really comes down to it, as long as he's getting his rocks off, he doesn't give two shits who's at the other end of it. But here he is, with his stupid heart thundering just because some silver-haired beanpole is looking at him like he's a four-course meal. This war isn't over yet, though. Acapulco's staring at the outline of a sizable cock in Orian's pants and the idea of cutting that man down to size- of making him tremble and beg- is so strangely appealing.

Orian catches his gaze and grins. He snags the black towel and cleans off his hands.

"You want a try, sweetheart?" he asks kindly, and Acapulco scowls.

"I'd have you screaming my name in thirty seconds flat," he snaps. Orian drops the towel back into the bowl of water.

"Oh? And what name is that? Manfred?" The King smirks, "Don't, ah. Don't take this the wrong way, but. _Manfred_ doesn't do it for me."

"Fuck you." Acapulco says again, his favorite phrase of the night.

"That part comes later, darling."

Acapulco is absolutely fuming again and Orian looks like he finds it fucking adorable, only serving to add to his rage.

"Untie me," Acapulco snarled, "And we'll see who fucks who."

"Whom."

"Un. Tie. Me."

"I have a better idea," the Wolf King decided, eyes on Acapulco's clean-shaven lips. He trails a thumb over them, slow and deliberate, and very appreciative. "What do you say, want to give it a try? You did say you'd have me screaming in, what was it again? Thirty seconds?"

What Acapulco wants is to win. To have the Wolf King at his mercy. Wants him whimpering and whining, putty in his hands. His smile is like poison.

"Make that twenty." Acapulco vowed. Orian’s expression should have set Acapulco on edge but instead he was blinded by pride.

"How about a little wager, then?" the Wolf King offers, "You win- you make me come in twenty seconds- and I'll cut you loose and continue to overlook your blatant disrespect for my territory."

"And if I lose?"

"How about we discuss that after we're finished."

Acapulco shakes his head. "I'm not agreeing to some fucked up blind deal. You either tell me what you want or piss off."

"Aw, baby. There's that language again. Much less sexy when I don't have your dick in my hand." Orian brushes Acapulco's hair back with a surprisingly gentle hand, "If I win, you have to stay here for a week and keep me company."

"I'm not staying tied to a chair for a week you sick old man!" Acapulco barked.

Orian chuckled. "I wouldn't do that to you. You'd be my guest; treated to the finest accommodations I have to offer. And all you'd have to do is be my perfect little plaything."

Acapulco does shiver now, the sickly-sweet tone of the Wolf's voice coupled with the strange unhinged look in those eyes making his heart skip painfully. It’s a scare tactic. It has to be. What the fuck would the king of the underworld want with his ugly ass for an entire week? His personality is nasty, he can admit it. He can't see anyone craving the kind of company he'd provide. Then again, Orian is one crazy bastard. He makes a point of telling the man as much.

"You're a crazy bastard. I can't wait to see the look on your stupid asshole face when I win."

But here's the thing; he's never actually done this before. Sure, he's had plenty of blowjobs in his lifetime. But giving one has never been at the top of his to do list. He'll admit he's been pretty intrigued a few times; he's found himself messing around with a particularly attractive man here and there and caught himself wondering. But a rough makeout and some dry humping is a far cry from getting his lips around a dick. He watches with trepidation as the Wolf King takes himself out. The man's not huge by any stretch of the imagination, but he's big enough that Acapulco can't see any way that thing would fit into his mouth.

"Nervous, baby?" Orian asks sweetly, and it's like the magic word. The guy seems to naturally know how to push Acapulco’s fucking buttons. The arms dealer glares and gets to work. He tries to remember how _he_ likes it; but usually it depends on the mood he's in. If a deal has gone right that day he wants it slow and teasing, a good long ride up until he gets bored and tells her to get on with it. If a deal's gone bad, though, he uses them. Takes what he wants hard and fast and tells them to get the fuck out once it's over. He needs this to end quick if he wants any chance at winning, so he thinks maybe somewhere in between is the way to go?

Tentative at first, he gives the barest of licks to the head. It's a strange taste, not entirely pleasant but nowhere near as disgusting as he'd assumed. Emboldened, Acapulco runs his tongue in a swirling motion around the tip.

"I'm gonna start counting," Orian warns in a pleased whisper, and he does. "One. Two. Three..." Acapulco tries to tune him out, tries to concentrate on the task at hand. He drags his tongue along the full length, then pops the whole head into his mouth and sucks. When he tries to slide down further he feels the way his teeth are scraping and pulls back, trying again and leading with his lips instead. He bobs his head a few times, can feel his face getting spit-slick and messy. That fucking constant counting is so goddamn distracting that Acapulco slips up and drags his teeth a couple more times, but Orian infuriatingly doesn't even react.

"Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen."

Acapulco wishes his hands were free, that he could at least stroke what he couldn't fit into his mouth. He pulls off with a wet gasp, tongues at the slit and gives another swirl around the head, before trying to force as much of the shaft inside as he can. He ends up gagging, but somehow his failure gets the first reaction from Orian since they started. The man lets out a breathy "_Ah_," both hands snapping out to grab handfuls of hair on either side of Acapulco’s head. Orian leans down, only the slightest bit of breathlessness to his voice. "That's twenty," he whispers, "You lose." And Acapulco can only utter a muffled sound of protest as the Wolf King starts fucking his face like a man possessed, using his hair like a pair of handles. It stings but the pain is overshadowed by the absolute fullness he feels from the repeated punch of cock into his throat. He can feel the muscles there shuddering as he swallows, swears his jaw's about to break from the way it's being forced open sinfully wide. His spent cock twitches almost painfully. Acapulco's sure his teeth must be catching but either the Wolf King has a kink or he's graciously chosen to overlook it in favor of absolutely destroying Acapulco's mouth. He can feel tears running down his cheeks and it's both a surprise and a relief when the rhythm stutters. Suddenly Orian's cock is pushed in deep, pulsing into Acapulco's throat. It's bitter and slightly tangy, and Acapulco sputters. There's a contented sigh as Orian pulls out and Acapulco takes a moment to just breath, feeling lightheaded at the sudden surplus of oxygen.

When he finally catches his breath and looks up Acapulco finds the Wolf King watching him with an eerie smile.

"You and I are going to have so much fun."

**Author's Note:**

> I had no one to edit this with me so kindly (and constructively) let me know if you spot any errors
> 
> Check out my Pacific Rim/Charlie Day twitter @GenderfluidNewt if you want


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